“Will the boats go abroad to-day?” asked the Prince.
“There is no wind.”
The net gathered in a great heap at the fisherman’s feet as his long needle flew over the meshes; he moved, and the dried seaweed crackled under his sabots.
“I saw de Ruyter’s fleet go past—when I was on my herring boat—two days ago … great ships … I thought the lanterns on the masts were stars.”
“They are under weigh to meet the India fleet,” answered the Prince.
“Ay, they say the English are waiting to drop on us—because of the herring fisheries too. Do you believe that, Mynheer?”
William seated himself on the end of the boat.
“I do,” he answered briefly.
An intent look came into the old man’s face that was cut and seamed like a walnut-shell and the colour of bronze above his vivid scarf.
“You think there will be war?”